


Water Falls

by daire, dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-31
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:48:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daire/pseuds/daire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: By Daire, Palladia, Robin, SBO, and Wain





	Water Falls

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Water Falls

  


  


  


_Water Falls_

By Daire, Palladia, Robin, SBO, and Wain 

This originally appeared as a Mid-Week Challenge/Round Robin story on   
the Highlander Holyground Forum 

The Mid-Week Challenge was "The Wetting Planners" -- to write a short story, scene or poem that takes place in the rain. The Immortal character(s) must be out in the rain almost the entire time. 

* * *

**Part 1**

It was yet another rainy day in the Highlands. He thought he'd never see the sun again and considered building an ark. But today it didn't bother him. He was numb today, the only feeling he had was sadness. Though only a mizzle at the moment, the precipitation was soaking his clothes and jacket. 

There weren't many trips to Scotland over the years, but he'd made a point to return once a year since he'd killed Kanwulf. And found Debra's long lost grave. 

She had been his first love, and no one ever forgot their first love. Duncan never forgot any of his loves, but some stood out more than others. Namely Debra and Tessa. 

He guided the horse silently. A nudge with a knee here, a nudge there as direction. He wasn't paying close attention, feeling as though something guided him. Lost in thought, he remembered a day that had started out much like it was now -- cool, damp, and rainy. 

_Spring, 1618_

Stealing from his bed even before his parents were about one morning, Duncan grabbed his sword and some hunting gear, despite the fact it wasn't his intention to do any hunting. They would presume he couldn't sleep and had gone hunting to help store up for winter provisions. 

The sun had just begun to lighten the sky and a mist still hung close to the ground. Making his way quietly through the village and forest to Campbell lands, he crept to Debra's hut. Sounding a grey partridge's call, he waited for her to come without. Her face was shining with happiness with an edge of tiredness. Duncan smiled to himself; she'd hardly gotten any sleep wondering what it was he had to show her. 

Quickly and quietly, they headed out of the village as cows, pigs and sheep drowsily watched them disappear into the forest. No doubt they would both be in trouble if found to be alone together for part of the day. It didn't bother them much seeing as Duncan was going to ask for Debra hand in marriage. They both knew, along with their families, he was too honorable to despoil her, but a few would look reprovingly on them. 

Her hand in his, he led the way, keeping a brisk pace since where he wanted to take her was a wee distance from either of their villages. Once in a while, Debra would ask him where they were headed, but he only looked back at her and smiled, saying "Ye'll see." And each time she would screw up her face in consternation. 

The sun was at the treetops by time they stopped and Duncan told her to close her eyes. Taking her hand, he carefully led her though the trees and foliage. Before they crossed the tree line, there was the faint rumble of a waterfall, but Debra didn't give any indication of hearing it. She was concentrating on where she placed her feet. 

Duncan saw her eyelids tremble. "Keep yer eyes tight," he teased. She stuck her tongue out at him playfully. He resisted the urge to kiss her, showing her there were better things to do with that particular appendage. 

Seating her on one of the flat rocks surrounding the small pool, he then sat beside her, as close as propriety would allow and whispered "Ye can open your eyes now." She did so, slowly, not knowing what to expect. 

A forty-foot waterfall fell in graceful undulations directly opposite them. Along with the increased drizzle, the spray of the water hitting the pool below sprayed them with a mist. In wide-eyed wonder, Debra took in her surroundings. 

The falls moved like a bride's veil as she walked, never the same movement twice. The pool was almost a perfect circle, funneling out at one point into a burn, doing its job of carrying water away so the area wouldn't flood. Surrounding vegetation was a lush, rich green, not the duller green of long-furrowed fields and areas with less moisture. This place was untouched, pristine and virgin, calming. 

"Oh, Duncan, 'tis wonderful!" 

"No' as bonny as you." 

\--Daire 

* * *

**Part 2**

Debra hugged her knees to her chest and exhaled with a smile. 

"How did you find this place?" she asked. 

"I suspect I wasn't looking where I was going," he answered. 

"Thinking about something else?" she asked with a shy sidelong glance. 

He busied himself by picking up pebbles and small stones. "You," he said. 

She moved closer to him, closer than the old women's wagging tongues would have approved of, and pressed her shoulder against his arm. Duncan avoided looking at her when she was this close to him, knowing that would be lost if he did. He spilled the pebbles from one hand to another, then pulled out one with a sharp edge and began to scratch lines in the stone ledge on which they sat. 

Duncan started at the sound of a snapped branch behind them in the wood, and he turned wary eyes toward the trees. 

\--Wain 

* * *

**Part 3**

Watching the woods, waiting, Duncan finally saw a small movement that didn't belong. Slowly, it resolved itself into human shape, sidling from tree to tree in a familiar way, and suddenly, he could identify it: his cousin, Robert. 

"The deer would hear ye coming a mile away, Robbie. That is, if they didn't smell ye first!" 

"Duncan. Debra," the other responded. "Early to be out. Been out all night, have ye?" 

"Nay, Robbie. Just came to see the falls at dawn," Duncan said. He and his cousin had been friends and competitors since they were children, but Robert had a bad side to him, a tendency always to see the worst. 

"And that would make her a fallen woman, aye?" In all this exchange, Robbie's eyes had never left Debra, whose hair almost glowed, even in the mist of the waterfall. He wanted to sink his hands into that curling mass of red, pull her head back, taste her throat. _Not now, not yet, but some day_ I _shall have her, not Duncan._

Duncan's hand lay lightly on Debra's waist, his sword put by, leaning against an oak whose roots held many of the rocks of the falls in place. 

_Maybe Duncan came here alone sometimes. It would be a likely place for an accident. No fuss, just a shattered body floating in the pool below the falls, and, in time, a wedding. Or maybe there was another way, a little doubt sown in Debra's father's mind. Duncan looked nothing like a MacLeod, for all the old Lair[d] owned him._

\--Palladia 

* * *

**Part 4**

Robert half-walked and half-slid down the embankment to the ledge where Duncan and Debra sat. He pushed his face between theirs. 

"You should be more careful, Duncan. Think what the old women will be saying about your lady's virtue tonight." 

Debra began to protest, but Robert stopped her by clapping on hand on her shoulder and another on Duncan's. 

"Don't worry yourselves," he said with a smile. "I've been up since before dawn. We'll just say that we were all together. That should keep the loose tongues quiet." 

Robert accepted their thanks and patted them both heartily on the back. He scrambled back up the embankment. At the top, he turned and looked down on Debra and his cousin. He watched them, as ignorant of his presence as if he had never been there, their heads touching. Then Duncan pointed to the waterfall, and Debra laughed at something he said, tossing her head back, her voice high and clear. Robert picked up a fist-sized stone and hefted it a few times. 

"Duncan!" he called. Startled, Duncan turned. 

"The three of us should meet at the split rock before midday. We can take Debra home together, save her from wagging tongues. What do you say?" 

Duncan nodded in agreement and waved. Robert hefted the stone one more time and sent it down the steepest part of the embankment, listening to the satisfying noises it made as it tumbled down and landed in the pool--sharp reports of stone against stone, a deep thunk, and a splash he could hear even above the sound of the waterfall. 

Robert disappeared into the wood, unleashing every curse he knew and covering nearly a mile before he decided to look for Old Andrew, the shepherd. By late morning, Robert found him, walking stick in hand, plaid and a small bag slung over his shoulder. Robert reminded himself that Old Andrew was not that old at all, only about the age of his Uncle Ian, Duncan's father, but the long days in the hills with his flock had aged him. He was a talkative man and a worse gossip than any of the women in the clan, which made the solitary life of a shepherd an odd choice of jobs for him. He greeted Robert and the prospect of conversation with a broad grin. 

Sheep, Robert felt, were the stupidest of the Maker's creations, but he listened as Old Andrew exhausted every detail of what each of his charges had done that day. Robert asked after the sheepdog and after Old Andrew's children and grandchildren, each separately and in turn. The preliminaries taken care of, Robert steered the conversation to a more interesting subject. 

"You've been blessed with many strong sons and fine daughters, Andrew," Robert said. "And they've given you grandchildren." Old Andrew beamed in agreement. 

"You have six sons and two daughters, just like my parents," Robert continued. "'Tis a pity that Uncle Ian and Aunt Mary only have Duncan, although he'll be a sure comfort to them in their old age. Tell me, didn't they want more?" 

"Your Aunt Mary lost many. The midwife said it would be a miracle if she ever carried a child until its right time." 

Robert made a careful study of his fingernails and cleaned them with his _sgian dhu._ He said, "How many did she lose, poor thing?" 

"I can't say for sure." 

"I could ask the midwife," Robert suggested. 

Old Andrew whistled for the sheepdog, and it ran off after a straying sheep. "Won't do you a bit of good," he said. "It was a different midwife. Right after your cousin Duncan was born, Ian banished her. She hasn't been seen since." 

The sheepdog stood near a tumble of boulders, barking for attention. Old Andrew spit on the ground and set off, mumbling about what trouble sheep were. As he left, Robert decided to plant a seed. 

"Why in God's name would Uncle Ian send away a midwife who'd worked a miracle?" he shouted to the departing shepherd. 

\--Wain 

* * *

**Part 5**

Jealous is a dangerous thing, very dangerous idea. 

Robert had entered into a dangerous place. He was asking questions that were better let unspoken. His questions were a danger to Duncan and that was something that could not be allowed. 

Duncan and Debra were not aware of the white wolf that had been watching them from the tree line. Neither was Robert as he crashed through the brush and leaves. 

Talking to the old shepherd was Robert biggest mistake. Something had to be done and done now. 

The right herbs and words added to the fire and it was done. 

As the firelight bounced off her hair she whispered, "I'm sorry Duncan." 

\--Robin 

* * *

**Part 6**

'D'ye think we've done wrong tae steal away like this, Duncan?' The sound of Debra's bright laughter now faded away into doubt. 'Perhaps we should head back now. I dinna like the thought that Robbie has found us together like this, ye know his temper.' 

'He'll no' say anything about our meeting and will find us as arranged,' Duncan soothed, although he realized that matters between him and his cousin were rapidly coming to a head. 

He tenderly took her smaller hands in his. 'Debra,' Duncan's voice stared to break, 'I know ye are pledged tae Robbie and I know everything has been arranged for ye tae marry, but I'm sure ye can see how I feel about ye. I always have.' 

She raised her face toward him, tears glowing in her eyes like the drops sprayed from the waterfall behind her. 'I've known from the moment I first laid eyes on ye, Duncan MacLeod, ye'd be my only true love. It is only duty tae my family that will prevent us from being together. All I've ever wanted was tae raise a family and grow old with ye -- it is a dream that'll never be.' Bowing her head, she sighed deeply and could no longer hold the tears back. They spilled onto her skirt and mingled with the spray from the falls. 

Duncan was undone by the sight of his love in such pain, and he struggled to keep his own emotions at bay. His hand rose to her chin and tipped her face to him, brushing the tears away. 'Debra, if ye desire it so, I shall speak to your father. I'll ask for your hand. Surely, he would look favorably on a Chieftain's son!' 

'Would ye? Perhaps ye are right -- he canna refuse the idea of his daughter marrying someone who'll someday lead a clan. Someone who'll make his daughter happy and give him many fine grandsons.' Taking a strip of cloth from a pocket, she dried her eyes and attempted to smile, knowing that the odds were still very much against them. 

Duncan rose from his seat on the ledge and extended his arm to her. When they gotten their footing once more he turned to face her and lowered his head to hers. He saw her tremble. 'Debra, this kiss is my pledge and promise to honor and love ye always.' 

'This is my pledge tae ye, too, Duncan,' she whispered just before their lips met in the briefest of kisses. 

'Then, it's settled. I will ask my father tae accompany me as soon as possible tae visit yer father. We should go now and meet Robbie as planned.' 

The couple arrived at the appointed time at the rendezvous, but there was no sign of Robert MacLeod. Duncan and Debra both tried to quell the feelings of dread they shared -- in the agitated states that Robert sometimes got into, they both knew he was capable of anything. As they decided to head back to the village to see if he was there, they came across Old Andrew, the shepherd. 

'Andrew, have ye seen Robbie MacLeod by any chance?' Duncan asked. 

'Aye, had a nice conversation with the lad earlier this morning. Bit odd, though he was asking about yer dear mother, Duncan, and why poor Mary had no more children than ye. I told him he'd never know that because yer father banished the midwife the night ye were born.' 

'What?' Duncan gasped. 'What did ye say?' He sprung at Andrew and grabbed him roughly by the coat. 

Debra threw herself between the two men, 'Duncan? Duncan, stop!' He finally heard her and released the old man. 

'Andrew, Andrew, I am sorry and hope ye can find it in yerself tae forgive me. It's just that bit o' news I've never heard before. It matters no' right now. Did Robbie say where he was going? We must find him.' 

He thought for a moment, 'No, no' really, but I did meet him on the road to the Campbell lands. I'd say he was going to visit yer family, wee Debra!' 

\--SBO 

* * *

**Part 7**

Fear gripped the young couple as they headed towards the Campbell lands. Both were worried about what Robert would do. 

Suddenly they heard a slight moan coming from the side of the road. Looking at each other, Duncan motioned for Debra to stay back. He drew his sword and headed cautiously towards where the moan had come from. 

Duncan looked into the weeds on the side of the road and gasp. "Robbie." he quickly knelt down, "Robbie." He touched his cousin's cheek and drew back in shock. 

"Debra, it be Robert and he has the fever." 

\--Robin 

* * *

**Part 8**

Duncan wasn't sure what had brought him back to the present. The rain was still steady with small rivers flowing around him. The woods were still quite. His head came up, a slightly Buzz was there just on the edge of sensor range. Then it was gone. 

Duncan relaxed then tensed again. He wondered what Robert had been about all those years ago and what would have happened had he suddenly not came down with a fever. It was very, very sudden. Hmm? 

The wolf changed into human form. "Duncan, you would never know." 

\--Robin 

* * *

**Part 9**

Gratitude. Robbie was told, at every turn, that he should be grateful to Duncan for his diligent nursing, for his having found Robbie sick unto death, in the first place. Duncan, Duncan, the name was said with smiles and approval, until Robbie could hardly force his mouth to say the words of agreement, could hardly even nod. 

Always, he saw the curling flames of Debra's hair, as she moved at her work, turned toward Duncan like a flower toward the sun. Duncan, who looked nothing like Robbie, black-haired Duncan, who laughed with Debra, carried her baskets for her, Duncan, who caressed her with a glance. They found excuses to be together, unspeaking, laughing occasionally with the sheer joy of each other's presence. 

Every morning, Robbie wound his way to the waterfalls, but never again found them there. It was as if they somehow understood that he would do ill, he thought; as if, after the fever, they somehow knew it had burned away the boyish charm he had sometimes had, and left only the smoldering desire for Debra -- and the urge to destroy Duncan, to whom he owed such gratitude. 

Andrew the shepherd had made his mark in all innocence, remarking on the occasional odd black sheep in a flock of white, how it must not be allowed to breed, lest more black sheep come whose wool would not take dye. 

I will cut out that black sheep, Robert MacLeod swore to himself. He'll not have my ewe. Debra Campbell will have my bairns, and she'll forget my "cousin", Duncan the Dark. 

Duncan was no blithering idiot. He must know how Robbie felt. He _did_ know, Robbie was sure, and all his good nature, all his show of caring for Robbie was just a pretense, an attempt to soothe Robbie into inaction. But Robbie was no fool, either, and little rumors began to worm their way into the clan's awareness, questions of what had ever become of the old midwife who had delivered the wives two-score years ago. 

\--Palladia 

* * *

**Part 10**

Ian MacLeod sat on a squat boulder, surrounded by the men he led. The matter at hand was serious -- another lost lamb. 

"How many does that make since Easter?" Ian asked. 

Old Andrew replied, "Five, and you can be sure it was the Campbells that took them." Murmurs and nods greeted Old Andrew's assessment of the situation. 

"It makes no sense, Drew," Ian said, waving his hand to quiet the others. 

"We shouldn't trust them," said a voice from the back. 

Ian raised his eyebrows. "It makes no sense. The winter wasn't harsh, so there's plenty of game." A few heads bobbed in agreement. Ian continued, "This year's crops show promise." Some of the men made superstitious gestures against the bold temptation of fate their leader had brought down on the harvest. 

Ian leaned forward and placed his forearms against his knees, making eye contact with all of the village men in turn as he spoke. "If the Campbells were hungry, they wouldn't take five lambs in two months, would they now? It's hardly enough to feed them, is it?" 

"They may not need the lambs, but they might take them just to vex us," Old Andrew suggested. "It wouldn't be the first time." The men began to talk among themselves and raise their voices. 

"The Campbells have lost six lambs from their own flocks," Duncan added. The anger that had building in the assembled crowd faded. 

"If you keep skulking around Campbell lands, they'll think you did it, Duncan," Robert accused. "Do you want to provoke them?" 

Duncan furrowed his brows and made to answer, but the rest of the men ignored Robert and began to make suggestions about what had happened to the lambs. 

Ian interrupted them with a question. "Even if we never find out what happened to the five lambs, what do we do to ensure the safety of the rest of the flocks?" 

He listened with care to the overlapping voices and singled out the best ideas -- shifting the flocks lower down the mountains, drafting two men to accompany the village's sheep day and night, and searching Donan Wood for wolves. 

"And one more thing," Ian said. "We invite the Campbells to celebrate Midsummer with us, up by the split rock where our lands meet." 

Ian slapped his hands against his thighs and stood, dismissing the crowd. Duncan stayed behind with his father when the others left. 

"You knew what you were going to say before you even brought them together, did you not?" Duncan asked. 

Ian stood and waited. Duncan took his cue to finish. "Then you let them say what they needed to, asked them make all of the suggestions they could, and added the one that was missing." 

Ian smiled and clapped his son on the shoulder. "You're learning. Keep it up, lad, and you'll be ready to lead this clan one day. Now, who's to take the invitation to the Campbells?" 

\--Wain 

* * *

**Part 11**

Ian studied his son's face, puzzled by the fact that Duncan had not immediately accepted the challenge of taking the MacLeods' invitation to the Campbells. He felt sure that his son would long for the chance to see Debra again. 'I may be advancing in my years,' Ian thought to himself, 'but I do remember what it was like to love so much that ye felt ye would burn from it.' 

'Something wrong, Duncan?' Ian asked, giving the young man an opportunity to talk. 

'No-yes-Father. It's Debra, you see-' Duncan mumbled in an embarrassed way and kicked at the rocks at his boots, his earlier confidence beginning to diminish. 

'What is it, lad? Sit and tell me.' Ian motioned for Duncan to join him on a nearby bench. 'Is it that hard tae say that ye love her?' he asked gently. 

'Aye, especially when she is betrothed tae Robert. I dinna think that can be changed, even though she doesna love him -- she loves me. And that has turned Robert's heart against the both of us.' It was clear that Robert and Duncan's strained relationship was taking a heavy toll on Duncan. And he feared that in anger, Robert might even raise his hand to Debra once they were married. 

'What would ye have me do, Duncan?' 

'I thank ye, Father, but this is my battle to fight. I was tae meet with Debra's father when we found Robert so ill with the fever. I shall go tae the Campbells with the invitation. And I will do what was planned before, I will ask for Debra's hand.' 

'Aye, ye are a good lad, strong and true. Would ye do me the honor and allow me to accompany you?' Ian asked, clasping Duncan at the shoulder. 

The young man smiled, glad for the reassurance, putting his hand over his father's, 'Of course, Father, of course.' 

\--SBO 

* * *

**Part 12**

Duncan MacLeod was good with a sword but awkward around the lassies -- and more awkward still at the prospect of visiting one of their fathers. Ian smiled at his son and gave a slight shake of his head. On the walk to visit Debra's father, out of their own village, past Old Andrew's flock, climbing higher and higher, Duncan had moved with all of the grace and confidence of the knock-kneed, gangly-armed thirteen-year-old boy he had once been. 

When father and son reached the split rock that marked the place where MacLeod and Campbell lands touched, they turned around and looked down the glen toward Glenfinnan and Loch Shiel. Duncan swallowed hard and pointed out Old Andrew's sheep, grazing below them. 

"At least when those poor beasties are led to slaughter, they don't know what's going to happen to them," he said. "It's better not knowing." 

Ian nodded toward the village. "Do you want to go back?" 

"No." 

Duncan turned and strode toward Debra's village, and Ian kept pace with him all the way. When they arrived in front of Lochlyn Campbell's black hut, Duncan spread his hand on the stone wall as if to draw strength from it -- or to reassure himself that it was real. Ian looked at his son. Duncan's pulse beat wildly at the base of his throat. Ian gave an encouraging smile, and they went inside. 

Ian and Lochlyn spent a good deal of time exchanging pleasantries before discussing how to defuse the escalating tensions the rash of missing sheep had caused between the two clans. Duncan's fingers worked the edge of his plaid until it was nearly frayed, but the dim space in the small stone building, made even dimmer by the cloudy day, hid his nervous gestures. 

When Ian broached the topic of marriage, Duncan nearly tore the fabric in two. 

"Marriage?" Lochlyn asked. He turned to Duncan, who quieted his hands. "My daughter Rose would be pleased to marry a fine lad like yourself, but we must wait until her older sister, Debra, has been wed." 

Ian cleared his throat. "Not Rose," he said. "It's Debra we've come to ask for." 

"It cannot be done," Lochlyn stated. "She's promised to your nephew Robert." 

"Aye, but," Duncan started. Ian silenced him with a nearly unnoticeable movement of his right hand. A slight inclination of Ian's head sent Duncan outside to wait. 

Lochlyn narrowed his eyes. "What are you up to, Ian? We're more alike than different, the Campbells and the MacLeods. You and me against each other, unless an outsider comes. Then it's you and me against the others, until the others go away. Then it's you and me against each other again. I won't have the Campbells used to drive a wedge between you and your brother's boy, Ian. If you have a score to settle, we won't be the weapon you use on him." 

"That's not it," Ian said. 

"What else could it be?" Lochlyn glowered at him. "Unless you mean to say that there's a reason to wed Debra to your son quickly to remove a stain on her honor." 

Ian met the other man's eyes and stated as firmly as he could without raising his voice, "I'd challenge any man myself who spoke ill of your daughter, Lochlyn." He searched for words, looking nearly as uncomfortable as Duncan had earlier. 

"They've fallen in love, Lochlyn. I know the lad's heart. Ask Debra her own." 

Lochlyn made a dismissive noise. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Ian a long, searching look. 

"There'll be talk if we break the betrothal with Robert," Lochlyn said. 

"A chieftain who has his people as well in hand as you will certainly be a lesson to me. With your fine example in mind, I'm sure I'll be able to handle the gossip in Glenfinnan." 

Lochlyn leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Ian MacLeod, I'll risk telling you something I wouldn't say to most men. You've only one son. Sometimes, men with only one son consent too much." He held up his hand to forestall any answer Ian might give him. "I'll think about it for the next month. After midsummer, I'll let you know." 

Ian nodded his agreement. "That brings me to the other reason for my visit, Lochlyn -- Johnsmas. The MacLeods would be honored if the Campbells would join them at the midsummer celebration." 

Outside the black hut, Duncan's toe had dug a hole nearly two inches deep in the ground while he waited. He started to attention when his father and Lochlyn came out into the gray afternoon. Ian and Lochlyn said their good-byes in formal tones. Ian set out for home, Duncan following along. 

When they had cleared Lochlyn's village, Duncan asked, "Johnsmas?" 

"Yes, they'll celebrate with us, up by the split rock where our lands touch." 

Duncan closed his eyes for a moment and asked, "Debra?" 

Ian gave his son a tight smile. "We'll see, lad. We'll see." 

\--Wain 

* * *

**Part 13**

The boat slipped back away into the dark waters of the loch, and the gray-haired man waved a farewell from shore. The oarsman gave a single curt nod in response. If he had noticed that Iseabail Gordon looked uncomfortable on the journey across the water, he gave no sign. 

Uncomfortable she had been, and more and more so as she and her husband, Angus, neared the end of their journey. Angus turned to order their belongings; Iseabail remained facing the loch, her fingers knotted in her shawl. She could still hear the oar bang from time to time against the wooden boat with a deep, hollow sound. 

Angus took his wife gently by the shoulders and turned her to face him. 

"I wish we weren't so close to Glenfinnan," she said for the hundredth time that day. 

"I know. If you don't want to go there, then you won't." He chafed her shoulders gently. Looking around, he found a dry patch of ground and led her there. 

She undid the tie on her long hair, white peppered with a few dark strands, smoothed it back, and tied it again. "Angus, it is not so much a matter of whether I want to go as whether I can." 

"'Tis a hard thing to look back on what might have been," Angus said. "Do you wish you had stayed?" 

Iseabail gave her husband a fond smile and tucked his hair behind one ear as she spoke. "It was hard to leave at the winter solstice. It was cold and I was hungry. If they had to send me away, it would have been easier in the spring. But no, Angus Gordon, I don't wish I had stayed. If I had stayed in Glenfinnan, I never would have met you or seen so much of this land. My life is as it should be." 

She started to rub her fingers, delicate and tapered, but with the knuckles swollen, red, and distorted. "And with these hands, God he knows I wouldn't be a midwife anymore." 

Angus' eyes flicked to her hands, and he crossed to one of their bags and opened it. He brought a small wooden box to Iseabail and opened it. He peered inside. 

"What do your hands say? Will we have that storm tomorrow that the oarsman predicted?" She nodded in agreement. 

"Here, let me," he said, gesturing to her hands, and she extended them. He scooped some of the red salve with two fingers and began to massage it gently into her skin, tracing gingerly over the knuckles, more firmly on the back of her hands. "It's almost gone, Iseabail." 

"We can pick more flowers soon; they'll bloom this week or next." 

Angus feigned surprise. "Is that why they call it St. John's wort? Because it blooms on Johnsmas?" 

He massaged and listened as she told him where to find the plant, how to prepare salve and infusion from it, and the various ills it would help. 

"It wasn't your hands that made you a good midwife, Iseabail," Angus said. "It was what you knew. What you still know." 

He put the lid back on the wooden box. The wind shifted and brought with it a faint smell of peat smoke and fainter smells of cooking. Angus stood slowly, wincing and rubbing one knee. He offered a hand to his wife and asked, "Well, old woman, shall we go to see the Campbells? At last year's harvest fair, I promised Lochlyn Campbell I'd sing for him at midsummer, and I mean to keep my word, God willing." 

Iseabail stood and helped Angus shoulder his lap harp. She picked up a bag and indicated her husband's sore knee. "Does your knee agree with my hands, Angus? Will it rain tomorrow?" 

Angus groaned and winced. "Aye, it will." 

Iseabail patted Angus on the arm and took a step toward the village where Lochlyn Campbell lived. "Are you coming, old man?" 

\--Wain 

* * *

**Part 14**

Duncan's heart sank when he heard the words, "We'll see." 

From the time he was a boy, when his father hated to disappoint him, but couldn't give him what he wanted, these had been the words he'd used. Duncan wondered to himself, bitterly, why his father didn't just say, "When pigs fly." 

Slowly, day by day as Johnsmas approached, Duncan began to resign himself to the cold fact: He could not have Debra for his own. She would marry Robbie, and whatever happened after that would happen. He stayed away from Campbell lands after the meeting with her father, wandered far abroad, hunting, watching game, walking the roads. 

When he came across the tinker's caravan, he smiled: every year, the old man made a circuit through the Highlands, selling pots and pans, crockery, repairing household items, bringing news. Duncan had snared a rabbit that day, and offered it to Jamie for stew. Sitting at the fire, watching the pot bubble, he told the story, glad to be talking to someone not in either family, someone who had yet known him since he was a child. 

The words tumbled out, bits and pieces, and Jamie fitted them together like a puzzle, from long custom hearing tangled stories. Debra was lost to Duncan, yet still there, still craved, as a comforting potion. 

However much he might seem resigned, Jamie knew, some part of Duncan still hoped, still cried itself to sleep at night like a homesick child. 

"Ye'll make yersel' sick, wanting, lad. Sometimes we canna have what we want, and the wanting destroys us. Let her go. There will be other lassies." 

What did Jamie know of love, roaming in his caravan, alone? Duncan spooned up the stew, offered his host the bowl, and served himself. He broke up some firewood, added it to the fire for light, then divided the bannock in half, part for each. 

Jamie smiled at the careful division of the food, at the good lad who had grown into a strapping man. "Duncan," he began, "I wasn't always old, and I didn't start life as a tinker. I haven't handled a sword for years, but once, I could. 

"My home was Aberdeen, and I haven't seen it for over thirty years. I left for much the same reason that you will leave Glenfinnan." 

Duncan looked up, sharply, and drew in breath to speak, but Jamie's raised hand stopped him. 

"You will leave, laddie, you can do no other. You will not be able to stand to watch your Debra with another. Accept it and go on." 

Jamie got to his feet, climbed into the caravan, and began to search. A muffled clanking told of his digging deep into the wares he carried. When he came back to the fire, it had settled to coals, and Duncan's face was barely lit as he lay stretched like a cat beside the warmth. 

"She'll no' be yer wife, laddie, but she'll no' really be his, either. That's the way of it. He'll get a body to warm his winter nights, but you'll have the memory to warm all your years. I should stay well out of this, but I give you this. Do as you like with it, but were Debra my love, I'd give it to her." 

Jamie dropped the heavy silver bracelet into Duncan's hand and folded his fingers over it. Then Jamie lay down across the fire, and slept. 

\--Palladia 

* * *

**Part 15**

Mary gave an exasperated sigh when she saw Duncan across the village, finally making his way home. He was gone more and more often now, and for longer and longer periods of time -- overnight, this time. She had watched her husband grow angry and frustrated with their son, warning him that it was hard to lead a clan of men if you didn't take the time to stay with them. 

Duncan leaned over and dropped a distracted kiss on his mother's cheek. 

"Your father wants you to take your turn guarding the sheep. Old Andrew's flock is up by Donan Wood today." 

Duncan disappeared into their home. Mary followed in a minute, offering help even though Duncan was a grown man who needed none. He turned suddenly from where he was arranging the pelt at the foot of his bed, a worried look in his eye. Mary prepared a bag of food for him, and he left. 

After Duncan had gone, Mary went to his bed. Her hand hovered over it for a moment, hesitating, and then dived under the pelt. She withdrew a heavy object wrapped in a scrap of fabric. Untying the package, she discovered a wide silver bracelet set with three large stones. She turned a sad face toward the door of their home, rewrapped the bracelet, and put it back in its hiding place. 

§ § § 

The barking of Old Andrew's dog met Duncan as he approached the flock. Duncan called a greeting back to the dog, but didn't otherwise distract it from its sweep around the sheep that were farthest scattered from the shepherd. 

Old Andrew knelt beside an old, recently shorn ewe. He bent her foreleg and pressed her cloven hoof into a round wooden box of broom ointment. She flinched, and Old Andrew ran his fingers, thick and callused from years of milking twice a day, every day, over the ewe to gentle her. 

He didn't look up as Duncan approached, but only said, "Your father already sent someone to help keep watch today." He pointed to Donnell, seated some hundred feet away and eyeing the sheepdog. 

"Aye," Duncan agreed, "and he'll send at least one more. When the sheep are this close to Donan Wood, he feels there's more danger of a wolf attack." 

Old Andrew snorted. "Or an attack by a man." 

"Wolf or man will find good cover in the wood, so Father sent me," Duncan said. "You believe it's a man?" 

"It was a good winter," Old Andrew said. "There's plenty of game for the wolves. They don't need to risk coming so close to us to hunt lambs." 

Duncan's defense of his father's point of view was interrupted by the sheepdog's barking. Robert whistled to dog and walked up to Duncan and Old Andrew. 

"You're to be the third, then," the shepherd said. Robert nodded agreement and staked out a place to sit halfway between Donnell and Duncan. 

Despite the urgent need to protect the village's flocks that had sent the men up by Donan Wood, it was a pleasant day with time for conversation, bawdy jokes, and out-of-tune singing. There was enough for the sheep to graze on that they didn't stray far, and the sun broke through the early morning clouds and shone all day long. 

Long the day was, too, for it was only two weeks to midsummer, and the men took turns napping after they ate. Old Andrew spent the time caring for his sheep, checking eyes and legs and hooves. Even the ram submitted to a quick going-over. 

Duncan occupied the time when Donnell and Robert napped in caring for his own charges -- dirk and sgian dhu and even claymore -- for his father had insisted that the men be well armed in the unlikely event that the sheep-stealer went on two feet instead of four. 

As the day drew to a close, Old Andrew and the dog herded the flock into a small space bounded by themselves, Duncan, Donnell, and Robert. The sheep bleated and jostled for position for a while, and then settled down to sleep. The other men followed, Old Andrew snoring loudly. Duncan was restless from a long day of inactivity and found it impossible to sleep. He wrapped himself in his plaid and stretched out on the ground, looking up into an unusually cloudless sky, the stars and planets sparkling brightly, and the Milky Way stretching in a wide band from the southern horizon to the northern. 

At some point, he must have dozed, for the next time he looked at the sky, the moon was overhead. A rustle came from the direction of the wood. He eased to one elbow silently, opening his mouth slightly to hear better, flaring his nostrils to smell better, willing his eyes to see beyond trees and ferns into the dark of Donan Wood. 

The softest of whispers carried across the field. "Do you hear that, Duncan?" 

He barely breathed his answer, "Aye, Robert, I do." 

A wolf cleared the shadow line of the wood and came into the clearing, ears at attention, edging silently toward the flock. Both men slipped their dirks into their hands at the sight. 

Old Andrew stopped snoring, and the wolf stood still, a single paw poised just off the ground. For a long minute, Robert, Duncan, and the wolf stayed frozen. Old Andrew turned to his side suddenly, snorting and gasping for air. The wolf's shoulders twitched in the moonlight, and it bounded back into the safe, dark cover of Donan Wood. 

\--Wain 

* * *

**Part 16**

In the softest of whispers, Duncan told Donnell that Robbie would track the wolf with him. Heading for the point where the wolf had faded into the woods, bent almost double, Duncan slowly traced the turned leaves, the odd shed hair. He and Robbie got as far as the rocky cliffs, and then there was no further sign. There might be a den up there, but it would take more than two men to search. 

Frustrated, Robbie and Duncan laughed shortly, and as one, lifted their kilts to mark the site, leaving a message for the wolf. Doubtless they hadn't seen the last of the predator, but it hadn't heard the end of them, either. 

_If only it weren't for Debra,_ Duncan thought, _there would be no problem between Robbie and me, and everything could be as it was: I had no brother, he had none, and we were clansmen together:_ Bare is back without brothers. 

_After Johnsmas,_ Duncan thought. _I must leave then. One last clan feast, and..._

A bleating sheep made them hurry back to where the flock was laid up. Had the wolf lost them, circled around, caught one? But it was only Andrew, catching an ewe with his crook, absorbing the jerking as she tried unsuccessfully to pull her hind leg away from it. Hand over hand, he worked his way down the crook, caught her fleece in both hands, and expertly upended her to check her udder. She was in good milk, and today was her day to be sheared. Her twins stood, watching, understanding nothing except that their mother was upset. 

"It's a wolf, all right. We'll have to search the cliff. I'll get the rest of the men," Duncan told Andrew. Leaving Robert and Donnell to guard, he set off at a steady jogtrot back to the village. 

§ § § 

"Aye, if he's in the cliffs, we'll need ropes and more men," Duncan's father agreed. "Go see if old Campbell will send us some. Get those you can, and we'll meet at the split rock." 

There was an awkward pause, but Duncan finally shrugged, ducked into the house, and left for the Campbells' lands. Lochlyn was happy to send men to search the cliffs, hoping to get rid of the problem. Unbidden, Duncan's eyes searched for Debra, but she was not there. _Nay, lad,_ Lochlyn thought. _My lass is off doing the laundry, good fortune for us all._

Hungrily, Duncan searched for a glimpse of Debra, but finally gave up, unaware of the pitying watchfulness of Campbell. 

The bracelet was hooked around the belt cinching up his plaids, a lump he could feel that almost matched the lump in his throat. _Debra, Debra,_ the name as clear in his mind as the image of her face that haunted him. _Debra, lost forever. Soon, now._

\--Palladia 

* * *

**Part 17**

The burn's water sang as it skipped down to the loch, and the sound of laundry being beaten on rocks made a pleasant counterpoint. Iseabail worked quickly, slapping a heavy, wet shirt against a flat stone and kneading it before dipping it back into the icy water. She weighted it with a smaller stone and tucked her swollen, red hands into her armpits. 

"Shall I help you?" Debra asked. 

Iseabail eyed Debra's large pile of laundry and her own smaller one. "It's kind of you, lass," she said, "but I'll do. Keeping me company is the best help." 

She untucked her hands from beneath her arms, fished the shirt from under the water, wrung it, and draped it over a small clump of heath. While there wasn't enough sun to actually dry the shirt, having any moisture at all depart into the thin mountain air would make the laundry lighter to carry home. 

Debra was working hard enough to have broken into a sweat, both fists crammed into a mass of linen, her breasts shaking as she rocked back and forth. She stopped for a moment, and with the back of her hand, she pushed her damp, red curls from her forehead and extended an invitation to Iseabail. 

"If you'd like, you can come when I cut heather for Johnsmas this afternoon. Then I can help you gather St. John's wort. I know a place where it fairly carpets the ground. We can fill three or four baskets without having to scour every bit of Campbell lands." 

"Thank you. I'd like that," Iseabail said. "Do you know where foxglove grows?" She had a pair of stockings in her hands, and was scrubbing them with a hard, yellow soap that made her delicate hands even redder. 

"Foxglove?" Debra asked. 

"It makes a good potion for the heart," Iseabail explained. 

Debra gave the old woman a sly look. "A love potion?" 

Iseabail stopped rubbing the stockings against each other and laughed. "No, Debra. A potion for faint hearts that beat too slow." 

Debra took the stockings from her and rinsed them in the cold water. She squeezed them mostly dry, hung them on a gorse bush, and kneeled close to Iseabail, lowering her voice conspiratorially. 

"But you ken how to make love potions, aye?" 

Iseabail snorted. "What would a beautiful girl like you need with love potions? I'm sure you have more than enough suitors, being the daughter of Lochlyn Campbell as well as beautiful." 

Debra frowned. "I have two, but my father hasn't decided which is the one I'll marry. The one I want, well . . . he hasn't come around for two weeks now. What if he doesn't love me anymore? He'll be at the Johnsmas celebration." 

"Lovage leaves and yarrow, steeped in whisky and sweetened with honey," Iseabail said. "That will help your suitor, but why bother if your father chooses the other man instead?" 

Debra waved a dismissive hand. "That potion would taste too strong. How would I get him to drink it?" 

"Mix it into mead; he'll never taste it." 

"Don't you need something of his to make a charm?" Debra asked. She reached into the folds of her skirt and withdrew a small braided loop. She took one of Iseabail's cold, wet hands and folded her fingers over the circlet. 

"A lock of his hair," she explained. 

Iseabail trembled and her eyes went blank. Debra, frightened and unable to rouse the older woman, ran to her village and brought help. 

When Iseabail's open eyes finally began to see again, she was tucked into bed, her husband, Angus, looking down at her with concern. Debra busied herself carrying their damp laundry inside and draping it near the fire, where the smoking peat bricks gave off heat but little light. 

"Ah, you're back," Angus said. "How do you feel?" 

Iseabail gave a furtive look to Debra, who took the hint and went outside. 

"It's the Sight," she said in a whisper. "I haven't felt it since I left Glenfinnan." 

Angus quirked his eyebrows. "Well, well. After all these years, I thought I knew each and every one of your secrets, old woman," he said. 

He smoothed her white hair. "Did the Sight trouble you often when you lived in Glenfinnan?" 

"Only once," she said. "The night before I left. I told you that the clan chieftain's lady wife gave birth to a stillborn boy." 

Angus nodded. 

"And how an old beggar woman knocked at the door with a baby in her arms." Iseabail swallowed hard. 

"Go on," Angus encouraged. 

"The beggar woman looked old at first, but then there was a shimmering about her, as if I could see two of her, and then she didn't look old anymore. She was old, older than the clans, but looked young and beautiful." 

Iseabail shuddered, and Angus gave her a drink of whisky. 

"I warned the chieftain and his lady wife that the woman was an enchantress and the babe a changeling, but they wouldn't listen. The light shimmered around the babe, too, and I felt good and evil swirling about the room, swirling around him. The wife offered to buy my silence, but the husband banished me that very night. I shouldn't have come back," she said, gulping for air. 

Iseabail unclenched her left hand. Her fingernails had dug bloody half moons into her palm. In the center of her hand was a tiny braided circle of nearly black hair. She looked at the door and back to her husband. 

"Throw this in the fire," she whispered, "and don't tell Debra. Then bring me Lochlyn Campbell." 

Angus shook his head. "He's still off hunting the wolf, and when he gets back, he'll be busy. Tomorrow's Johnsmas." 

Iseabail gritted her teeth. "Bring him, Angus. There's something he needs to know." 

-Wain 

* * *

**Part 18**

Pausing at the top of the hill overlooking Glenfinnan, Jamie Strathairn set the brake on the caravan to help the pony breech going down the grade into the village. As always, the sheer beauty of the scene caught him, made him think, however briefly, about settling there, no longer roaming the circuits of his year. How many times had he celebrated Johnsmas here with the MacLeods, adding his jugs of good whisky to their food and fueling the dancing? How many Midwinters had he spent beside the hearths here, one last stop before he headed south to winter in Braemar? 

He laughed to himself, remembering some of the past years' feasts. 

If there was no wealth in Glenfinnan's homes as the nobility counted it, there was an open-handedness that somehow made them seem more prosperous than they were. Given that, coupled with the splendor of the scenery, Jamie counted this stop one of his favorites. 

Old Ian had been a good chieftain, and Duncan looked to be a good successor, when the time came. Too bad about the girl -- such things could cause problems, and evidently the Campbell had made his choice on his daughter's behalf. 

In Jamie's case, the girl had been a Montrose, and her father had been very unsympathetic to his suit. No reason, no excuses, just "no." He had walked away from his berth on one of his father's ships, bought a caravan and pony, and been a tinker ever since. He had never smelled the salt air again, roaming inland. 

At the bottom of the hill, as the weight of the wagon stopped pushing the pony, he let off the brake, and asked the little bay to pick up a trot. 

Shaking his harness bells, the pony caught the attention of all the children of the village, who ran to their mothers with the news of the tinker's coming. By the time he got to the first house, women were lined up, waiting. There would be some bantering for the privilege of guesting him, because he would work his keep. 

He hung out his pots and pans, laid out his tinner's tools, and began his patter. "The very finest in the new tinplate, my ladies, excellent for cooking, and beautiful pewter mugs for toddies on those cold winter nights." He noticed that there were no men or even older teenage boys around, and wondered if somehow the MacLeods and the Campbells were at it again. If what Duncan had said were true, the marriage between the Campbell daughter and the MacLeod son was supposed to set things right, but still. . . these old feuding clans often went on for time out of memory. 

Working, watching, he made his mental notes, all the things to tell his Earl when he spent the winter there. All the things that made up the tapestry of information that kept the peace more or less in place, Jamie the Tinker sold his pots and remembered. 

But there was one among the women he had not seen here before, or couldn't remember, a woman who offered him a pot to be pounded out. He wondered how she could even manage to cook, so bent were her fingers with arthritis, like an old tree's gnarled roots. Jamie filed back through his memory, stuffed with names and faces, sorting through to find a younger version of this lined face. He had almost arrived at a name when it was given to him. 

"Iseabail!" Mary MacLeod said the name with all the despair of a rabbit frozen in the shadow of a hawk. What was it about an old midwife, Jamie wondered, that could cause such fear in a chieftain's wife? Iseabail pushed her hair off her forehead with the back of a hand, and the gesture clicked the story into place. He had come on her stumbling on the road one cold morning after Midwinter, years ago. She had begged a ride with him, wherever he was going, just away from Glenfinnan. She was silent all the way to Braemar, helping with her share of the work, saying nothing. She had disappeared there, all those years ago. Now she stood here, silent again, waiting, as Mary MacLeod walked toward her. 

\--Palladia 

* * *

**Part 19**

Mary straightened her shoulders and walked to Jamie's wagon. She narrowed her eyes at Iseabail and summoned her courage in a deep breath. Turning on her heel, she dismissed the lined-up women. 

Jamie hiked his eyebrows. "Mistress MacLeod? It's hard for a tinker to ply his trade with no customers." 

"Pack your things. It's not safe here. Did no one tell you? Ian's taken the men to the Campbells to try to talk one last time." 

"Since when did Ian MacLeod take all of his men just to talk?" Jamie said. 

Mary said, "Because he knows that talking won't work." She turned her look onto Iseabail and barely suppressed a shudder. 

"How dare you come here?" Mary asked, her voice unsure. "You've brought it all down on us." 

Iseabail waved her dented pot in front of Jamie, who took it with some reluctance. She answered, "Angus and I must eat. You cannot deny us that. Let me get this fixed, and then we're off to the coast." 

Mary's face was white; her voice was a harsh whisper. "You've brought this all down on us, from the time my Duncan was born! Disgrace after disgrace, and now death after death." 

"I didn't bring it down on you, didn't wish for any of it," Iseabail said, clawing at the rosary at her waist, clutching its large wooden cross in her gnarled fingers. "But I did see it coming." She kissed the cross and began to intone a Hail Mary under her breath. 

Jamie placed Iseabail's pot over a wooden form and began to hammer out its dented bottom. If he couldn't think of anything to say to stop Iseabail from upsetting such a good patron as Mary MacLeod had always been, at least he could hurry her on her way. 

Mary grabbed the old woman's arm, setting the wooden rosary beads clicking. "You and your husband have been with Lochlyn Campbell since, since Debra and Robert . . . " she started, slowing down as her eyes grew wide. "There's to be no peace, is there? This is going to come to battle, is it not?" 

Iseabail confirmed Mary's worse fears with a nod and renewed praying on her rosary. She interrupted an Our Father to tell Mary, "And Angus will meet me by the loch when it's over, and then we'll leave." 

Mary crossed herself. "Holy Mary, Mother of God." 

Jamie handed the hammered-out pot to Iseabail, declining payment. "Mary," he said, "There have been skirmishes and tussles between the MacLeods and the Campbells for years -- why, since there have been clans." 

"Aye," Mary said, jerking her head in the direction of Iseabail, "and she and her husband stayed through all of them for the four years they've been here. If they're going now, it means more than just a skirmish." 

Mary and Jamie watched Iseabail walk through the village toward the loch, her bag slung over her shoulder, passing the women of Glenfinnan as she went. The news of the impending battle passed with her, and the women grew anxious in her wake. 

Jamie watched as the fear on Mary's face turned to resolve; she had more than strength enough to be the clan chieftain's helpmate. She picked up her skirts and ran to Iseabail. The old woman stopped her mumbled prayers long enough to listen. 

"Iseabail, you were a gifted midwife and healer," she said. "I beg you. Stay with us until your husband comes. Perhaps you can help tend the wounded." 

Iseabail laughed and held up her hands. "Mary, I can't bind a wound or mend a broken bone with these. All I can do is pray." 

Mary took her by the arm and turned her back the way she had come. "Pray, then, if you will. It seems we'll all need it." 

\--Wain 

* * *

**Part 20**

_Present Day_

Duncan found what he had come for. He dismounted from the horse and lifted the flap of the saddlebag, removing the red roses he had carefully placed there. He walked to the small granite marker. His fingers traced Debra's name, and he murmured a greeting to her in Gaelic. Resting his hand on the cold, wet top of the stone, he remembered. 

He remembered the Johnsmas feast when he still thought he might ask for her hand, arriving late with the slain wolf over his shoulders, dropping it at the feet of his father and Lochlyn Campbell. Lochlyn's approval gave Duncan hope that the silver bracelet he had bought as a parting gift to Debra might instead be her wedding gift. 

Memories of the feast day music came to him, and dancing; the food, oatcakes and new yellow cheeses as round and golden as the sun; the way he contrived to sit next to Debra; the mug after mug of mead she had offered him. When the long, long day had passed, he remembered jumping the bonfires, too, Debra squealing that he must wait until the fires were lower, himself running barefoot, kilts flying, leaping seven and then eight times over the flames. Robert had tried to jump then, and had skidded to an ungraceful landing on the far side of the fire, burning himself slightly. 

Duncan remembered offering Robert a seat next to him, listening to the whoops of delight when Robert had tersely informed the crowd that he couldn't sit and rubbed the burned part gingerly, and Duncan turned to Debra and pressed his thigh along the length of hers. 

He saw again the flaming cartwheel careening down the hill, and then closed his eyes against the memory of Debra's body falling to her death. He felt the weight of her in his arms and against his chest as he carried her broken body home to her father, recoiled even four centuries later at the memory of the man rejecting his daughter and refusing her burial. 

Duncan knelt and placed his hand where he thought the silver bracelet might be, the wedding gift become a grave offering. He hadn't seen Debra's father after Duncan carried her home, not until the day they met in battle, Lochlyn's face twisted in hatred as his claymore slid under Duncan's ribs. 

"For my Debra," Lochlyn had said. 

He had known little after that until the unbearable pain of being jostled onto a bed brought him to consciousness. Among the other memories, one floated free, one he had never made sense of four centuries before. He remembered the white-haired woman -- although he could no longer remember her name -- screaming and praying when he came back from his mortal death, gnarled, twisted fingers holding the wooden cross from the end of her rosary to ward him off. 

She stayed with him, even after his father cursed and disowned him and ran away, her face frozen with fear, her mumblings turning to ravings. 

"Born once, born twice," she rambled, singsong, her eyes darting around the room seeing something Duncan couldn't. "I can see it all! Then thrice . . . in a trice." She almost laughed then, and her mouth opened and closed silently for a few minutes. 

She held the cross to one invisible tormenter, then another. "Four . . . there's more!" Her voice rose to a shriek as she counted, "Five, you're alive. Six . . . please, I don't want to see more!" 

Duncan remembered her bursting outside and running away, but thought no more of her. He thought only of finding his father. The next day, the old woman had been found drowned in the loch. 

The rain was coming harder now, hitting the gravestone in fat drops that slid down the granite. Duncan's horse stamped a foot and shook its head. Duncan started to go, then turned back to Debra's grave. 

He bent down and worked a single red rose free from the bunch, then mounted his horse and turned it in the direction of Loch Shiel. When Duncan arrived there, it was raining hard. He walked to the loch's edge and tossed the rose into the lapping waters, saying a quiet benediction to the old woman for whom his Immortality had been as much of a curse as it was to him. 

\--Wain 

* * *

Round Robin Home 

© 2001 Daire, Palladia, Robin, SBO, & Wain   
Please send comments to the authors! 

General Disclaimer: the concept of Immortality and any characters from the _Highlander_ universe belong to Davis/Panzer Productions, et al. No copyright infringement intended, there is no monetary gain, yadda yadda yadda. 

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